


They Tried to Kill Us, They Failed, Let's Celebrate! -- A Holiday on Winter Hill

by werpiper



Series: Winter Hill [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (well kinda), Adolescent Sexuality, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Assorted sex acts, Body Paint, Circus, Complete, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossdressing, Dwarves, Dwarves were JRRT'S Crypto-Jews, F/F, F/M, Gender Identity, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Kissing Games, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Dwarves, Orgy, Other, Purim, Threesome, We Amuse Ourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werpiper/pseuds/werpiper
Summary: The Dwarves' annual bacchanal, with a masquerade, a play, an orgy, and random circus arts!Things start out pretty gen; kissing games appear in chapter 8 and the E rating starts in chapter 10.  Gender discussions in chapter 9.  POV's vary and are noted on chapter headings.Various references herein to other works of mine and Thorinsmut's, for the connoisseur, which is to say mostly one another <3
Relationships: Bifur/Dwalin (Tolkien), Bifur/Lari (OC), Bifur/Óin (Tolkien), Dwalin/Nori (Tolkien), Dís/Dís's Wife, Fíli/OC
Series: Winter Hill [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634950
Comments: 113
Kudos: 29





	1. Invitation List (Bifur and Lari)

They sat side by side over the guest list, their very different handwritings intertwined across the page. Lari's set was more political, in a set that was inherently set against itself: her old Suffragist friends (many of whom remained pro-Prohibition) against her Dwarvish people. Bifur was used to that; some of the ladies would decline outright, and others would attend and consider themselves outrageous for it, which he found essentially offensive. But such offense was not enough to deny Lari her choice of company, so he only sighed. Lari, however, was tapping her pen beside one name in Bifur's elegant old-world script: Dwalin Fundinol.

"You're entirely too taken with him," she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. "If you want to see him so much, invite him back to dinner. And breakfast, of course. You don't need to see him at a party."

Bifur smiled wryly; his wife knew him all too well. "But I want him at the party," he replied. "For the fun of it. Perhaps he'll bring Fili again." It was traditional that this occasion was open to any youngsters a guest might choose to bring, or who might wander in on their own. "I daresay his gifts will warm the celebration."

She swatted him. "You want him to bring the drinks for free," she said, and he grinned without denying it. Dwalin's family was famed for their imports; they themselves did business through Dwalin's cousins, now. "But you also want _him_ ," (Bifur's grin only grew wider) "and I worry he'll distract you from hospitality. We'll have a hundred guests, and it won't do for you to be sniffing after one."

"So we'll ask him to bring a date," Bifur suggested. "He'll be busy, then, and perhaps I'll have something nice to watch."

Lari laughed, and pretended to swat him; he caught her hand and kissed it, which she had entirely expected. "That might make a fine sight," she agreed. "Maybe he'll bring Thorin Oakenshield, and we can count a social coup! But certainly, if that is what you like," she said, and she inscribed, "and guest" next to Dwalin's name.


	2. The Day's Mail (Dis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dis distributes the post to her family. Dwalin has received something special.

There was more mail than usual, and there was usually a lot of it. Dis's arms were overflowing and she dropped the Sears catalog right onto the sideboard where the breakfast dishes were set. She put it aside to read herself, then shuffled the rest into a relatively organized stack, and went to hand the letters out.

"Gas bill," went to Farli, along with a kiss on the sweet spot beneath her eye and above her beard; "note from Grandfather," to Thorin with a shared smile and rolling of the eyes; "catalogue from Dartmouth for you," to their younger son. She shuffled further through the stack: "Also Johns Hopkins, Cornell, and the University of Ohio at Bowling Green?" She handed those over; the one from the U.S. Marine Corps she chose to retain unremarked.

Farli was smiling at the son she bore. "You might like Cornell," she said to Kili. "Their archery team is very good, you remember we saw them beat Harvard last year."

Kili scowled, dark brows low over his mail. "I don't know why they're sending me all this," he said. "Fili's the brains, and he's already doing part-time at MIT."

"Because you got straight A's," his older brother drawled, beaming back at him, and both the mothers nodded.

"You can't expect your school counsellor to ignore that," said Farli, even as she accepted the bill from the dairy from her wife. "You should have some backup applications in, even if you do want to stay in town." Kili's frown deepened, and Dis shuffled ahead -- nothing today from Harvard, or Tufts, or even Boston University. The catalog from Charlestown Community College, Dis kept back along with the USMC.

One envelope was particularly heavy, cream-colored, and sealed with wax -- it reminded Dis of old-country letters, though who would send heavy paper across the ocean? -- the postmark was local. "Dwalin," she read, not without surprise. Her cousin reached a long arm from behind his eggs and toast and orange juice, and took it from her hand.

"What is it?" That was their older son, craning his neck less than politely while Dwalin read. She could see his lips moving as he sounded out the content, which intrigued her further -- Dwalin didn't do that reading English, so the elaborate correspondence must be in Khuzdul.

"Fili, is this your grades?" It wasn't, wrong time of the semester, but at least that got his attention. 

"Spring concert schedule for chorus," he said, handing it back to Dis with the torn envelope. She took it; the contents would end up in the family calendar. "Dwalin, what did you get?" 

By then her cousin was smiling slightly, the heavy paper still lost in his large, tattooed hands, cradled secretively against his belly as he leaned back in his chair. "Invitation," he said. "To a party."

"What? What kind of a party? Who'd invite you anyway?" Kili dumped his own mail on the floor (Dis sighed) and reached for Dwalin's. Dwalin held fast, unperturbed, as Kili all but climbed into his lap.

"For the Forging-Festival," Dwalin said. Thorin drew in a breath, then exhaled without saying anything. Dis glanced at her brother. Usually the whole family attended the holiday at Thrain's, even now that he was too old to live in the city and had retired from family operations; his place on Martin's Pond was always welcoming. She looked back at Dwalin just as he relinquished the letter to Kili, probably also just in time to keep the paper from being torn.

"It's from Bifur the toymaker," Kili announced, holding the gilt-edged invitation to the light. Dis glanced towards the mantlepiece over which Bifur's craftwork hung, displaying a ceremonial knife of Thorin's and their grandmother's single remaining pearl earring, a gorgeous complementary pairing of worked bronze and enamels. The latter setting had been a gift to her from Fili, and she glanced at her older boy. He wasn't smiling at his brother anymore. "He's supposed to bring a _date_ ," Kili added, scandalized and snickering.

"Have fun," said Fili dismissively. Everyone in the room heard it as loud as if he'd said it, though: _Bifur was supposed to be MY contract._

"You can come anyway," Dwalin interrupted that silence, "because you're still in school. Children's privilege."

Fili gawked at him, and Kili as well. A glance flicked between them, then both fixed on Dwalin again.

"I'll go to Grandfather's," said Kili, in diplomatic tones. "You really should be in town, Fili. It's business."

"It is," Dwalin added ponderously, "and it's better for you to come in under children's privilege anyway, Fili. There will be at least two other parties on the block, and you should put in an appearance on the family's behalf." Fili's jaw worked, and Dwalin's smile went wide. "No worries, lad," he said encouragingly. "You are old enough to walk in that neighborhood alone that night, and armed."

Dis's eyes went wide at that, but she knew better than to look back at the family's enforcer. She caught Farli's gaze instead, and they steadied one another: _All right. Inevitably. Our boys are growing up. We knew this would happen. This is how it should be. We'll cry together later, when the others are gone._

"And costumed," said Farli aloud, quite briskly. "Well then, Fili. Do you want to be a clown this year, or a king, or a queen?"


	3. Privileges 1 (Fili)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili takes in the neighborhood.

Dwalin and Fili had marched halfway up Winter Hill together, then stopped outside the toyshop door. "Go to any party you'd like," the armsmaster told him. "Make sure you appear at the Schwartz place, giving Thorin's particular regards to Betty. You can stop by the old Li place but don't stay more than an hour no matter who is there. Skip the Rauds', they don't need to see you and I happen to know they spike even the kiddies' punch." His heavy hand rested on Fili's shoulder, familiar even through the dozens of extra rings from Dwalin's Queen Vashti get-up and the furry layer of Fili's lion one.

"And be upstairs here by nine, or you'll send a scout," Fili finished for him. They'd been over the planning a dozen times already. "Have fun," he said, trying to soften the rudeness of it, "I'll see you soon."

"Seeya." Dwalin was scowling as he turned away and disappeared through the shop's unlocked doors, but Fili knew he meant only a little worry by it. He put his hands in his pockets, then through the slits inside them, touched two knives and a pistol in their thigh holsters, and headed uphill into the deepening twilight. There was a butcher's shop only a few doors further down, with three little stones stacked inconspicuously at the threshold. Fili brightened immediately, trying the handle even though the sign on the door said CLOSED. It turned and he went inside.

The path of white stones led around the counter and through an open door, and the party there was in a back room. "Welcome, lion child!" said four or five people, mostly in Khuzdul, and Fili grinned at them. "In Mahal's name," he replied. This party was mostly children, and he was happy enough to count himself among them. A few were old enough that he recognized them, faces at least, from Somerville High; there were also some children still too young for even that. Everyone was in costume, or makeup on their faces at least, and there were paper lanterns hanging on the walls and chalk-marked dicing games on the stone floor. He drank a cup of punch (gingery and orange, not spiked in the slightest) and left a faceted quartz among the dice, and when he left a kid -- fourth grade or so by Fili's guess -- followed him out, then took his hand when they reached the street.

"My name's Ausgeir," said the kid, who was made up like a deer with little antlers. Fili introduced himself, and they held hands as they went around the block, Fili confidently leading to the Schwartz place. That was a private house, and the three stones were stacked behind the front hedge; you'd probably have to look to know it was there. But the door was properly unlocked, though the white stones led straight through the first floor and out a back door. There was a bonfire and tents, and Ausgeir was immediately seized by a tall woman with a white-powdered beard and tall crown, apparently a great-aunt or somesuch. Fili went off to find Betty, who was carving a huge roast turkey; she put down her tools long enough for them to touch foreheads and accept Thorin's regards, then handed him a plate with a drumstick. Davy Schwartz, from Kili's class, was playing the double bass with his swing band, and Fili watched the dancers while he ate. He would have liked to dance himself, but was very conscious of the time, and also that this might be his last chance to wander Winter Hill going wherever he liked. Children had privileges, especially on holidays; adults needed invitations. He left behind an agate slice and was back on the street as soon as he'd found a place to leave the dish, still gnawing on the turkey bone.

Contrary to instructions, he decided to skip the Li house. They were family and he saw them all the time. Instead he searched the streets for the little stone stacks, purposely entering houses and shops he did not know. It was fun, seeing how other people's houses were arranged; who entertained guests in the front parlor, who had set up a stone-path through empty rooms to celebrate in a kitchen or a basement. All of the open houses were pretty classy, with stone-tiled floors and brightly painted walls, and all their extra chairs put around. Everywhere there was food and dice and pretty rocks scattered about, music live or playing on a Victrola, and children alone or traveling in swarms, everyone dressed up and calling each other by their costumes -- lion child or deer child or mouse child, Queen Vashti or Queen Esther, King Achash or Mordecai in his cape or Haman with his peculiar hat. Most of the people in attendance were dwarves, of course, but there were Men here and there, some obviously kids' school friends and even some grown-ups, looking lumbering and slightly absurd, out of scale to the furnishings. There was even one three-stone-marked house where a dwarf and a Man were co-hosting, perhaps a bit self-conscious in their own elaborate dresses as the Queens, pouring out cup after cup of hot chocolate with heavy whipped cream. They had a silver-worked tray to hold their guests' offerings, and Fili gave them amber because it was his own favorite.

Everywhere of course there were clocks, and a few places even had put up the flyers the shul had sent out with the holiday schedule: open houses were allowed from three-sixteen in the afternoon until four minutes after nine; local midnight would occur nineteen minutes after clock-strike twelve. In fact Fili was in front of the toyshop again at three minutes before nine. He opened the door, followed the trail of white stones through the darkened display aisles, up the steps past the family apartment and up further to what must be the workshop. He could hear the sounds of the party drifting from behind the next turn of the stairs when Bifur and Lari and her cane suddenly filled the space above him, and he stopped, trying to press himself against the wall to make room.

"Fili!" Bifur exclaimed, then properly corrected himself aloud, "Lion child." He turned back a step up, calling out, "Dwalin, your cousin's here!"

Lari meanwhile came down towards him. She was definitely dressed as King Ezzar, beard and hair and triple crown an elaborate confection with (Fili could not mistake) mithril and emeralds bright among the many braids and curls. She put her free hand out to him, and Fili took it. Her hand was smaller than his, more calloused, and very warm. "Come, lion chid," she told him, "you can watch the little ceremony."

So he went back down with her, Bifur a moment behind. The three of them opened the door and stood on the sidewalk, in the dark, waiting for the moment while the wind picked up. Then Lari reached out with her cane and toppled the three-stone stack. Fili shuddered, and Bifur knelt to pick them up and put them in his pocket.

Bifur opened the door and they all went back inside. He locked the door with some ceremony, and Lari allowed Fili to escort her ahead as Bifur knelt to retrieve each white stone behind them. Slowly they ascended the dark stairs. The party noise had intensified, voices and laughter and loud music, and the door above them opened, letting out many colors of light.


	4. Performance (Nori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori at the party.

Although Dwalin had already proven himself excellent company for drinking, sex, and assorted violent mayhem, Nori was inclined to find him wanting as an actual date. For one thing, his costume -- modest Queen Vashti, in a long plain dress of not-very-flattering brown, with heavy rings of responsibility and virtue -- was entirely less attractive than anything Nori had seen him wearing as everyday clothing or for an evening out. For another, although Dori would have been the first to scold Nori for any signs of New World jealousy, the way that their host -- Bifur, apparently, an elderly character made up in black and white -- had first squinted at Nori's note from Dwalin at the door, then clung to Dwalin with such heat and wandering hands upon his arrival, would have made anybody feel a bit like a third wheel, even at a very large gathering. And though Dwalin had greeted Nori warmly enough himself, it was clear that he was still watching the door as the Children's Hours wore on.

Nori half-wished he had stayed home, entertaining Ori and his school friends, helping Dori host and serve. But he plastered a knife-smile over the scowl that wanted to settle on his face, and stayed as much out of spite as anything. He turned his back on Dwalin, refusing to glance over his shoulder to see if that had been noticed, and went for the standard party attractions. The food was certainly adequate -- duck and turkey and a huge roasted beef, platters of potatoes, fruit-filled pastries, and a truly lavish spread of different kinds of cheeses and cheesecakes. The wine-punch was good, although Nori was inclined to prefer his drinks either sweeter or harder. And the party space -- apparently some kind of workshop, up at the top of the house, with a kind of mezzanine running around it and skylights -- was full of fascinating tchotchkes, and Nori had worn the motley of a clown. So he juggled.

Upstairs he went with a drinking glass, an orange, and a rune-carved quartz crystal from the mantelpiece, flipping and flowing from hand to hand. Some children cheered, and Nori gave them his first genuine smile of the night. He tossed the orange to a little one, who caught it -- good move, kid! -- and felt actual joy, for just a moment, and a little brighter overall as he continued to explore the upper space. The ceilings were high and slanted, and Nori wished he had some rubber balls, just to try them for the bounce.

An older woman, in the high braids and crown of a king (Nori's cultural education was not so assured that he was certain which one) tossed him a fancy wooden dagger. He had to reach to catch it, but managed triumphantly, keeping the crystal and the glass (perhaps he was stupid, to be juggling something so breakable, but it had been right at hand) in their orderly cascade through the air. She smiled at him, so he showed off a little, changing the pattern from a cascade to a windmill, then throwing the wooden dagger twice high and then reintegrating it on the next round. She grinned at him again, then her hand darted in and snatched the wineglass. Nori caught the crystal and let the dagger fall to the floor, prepared to be offended. But she had produced a bottle of something dark and clear from within her robes and was pouring out a drink, so he covered himself by picking up the dagger, and when she handed him the glass he gave her back her wooden weapon in polite exchange.

The woman-king smiled. "Nori, am I correct?" she asked, her voice friendly and deep, and he nodded. He sipped his drink, found it entirely unfamiliar, but both sweet and strong in excellent measure. "I'm Lari, your hostess," she added. "Welcome to our celebration."

Nori raised the glass to her. "They tried to kill us, they failed, let's -- drink!" he said, a variation on the formality, and one he could produce adequately in Khuzdul at that. She raised the bottle back to him and swallowed from it directly, which raised her a notch in his respect.

"Do you want to be in the play?" she asked. He was dressed as a clown, so he certainly could be -- any number of clowns were always correct -- but he shook his head.

"I'm looking forward to watching," he said, best manners, Dori would be pleased. Suddenly he realized he meant it. He wanted to see this woman in the play, to overhear the kings plotting, to watch her wield that wooden dagger in the drama. Their little home enactment was familiar to him over years, but he'd never seen a costume like hers -- was that _mithril_ on her crown? If the play were elevated to the level of the props, it would surely be a sight to see.

She nodded, grinned again. "You'll get to see Dwalin with a sword," she said, and despite his honest jealousy Nori felt a stir of excitement at the idea. He'd seen Dwalin fight, of course, but only fists and knuckledusters, and that one terrible time with the pistol -- but they'd both survived, after all, and they'd become friends since. Or people who had adventures together, anyway. Who collaborated in crimes, and invited each other to parties. Who had sex in back rooms and back seats. He wasn't quite sure what it added up to, not yet, but surely it was something? Perhaps Lari saw something in his face, because she wasn't smiling anymore; her regard went warmer and softer. "Put a cushion over there by the railing," she suggested, pointing with her regally-braided, bearded chin. "Then you'll have the best view." Nori thanked her, and after she refilled his glass, he went to comply.


	5. Play (Dwalin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a play!
> 
> This is very, very vaguely based on a Purimspiel, and on the Silmarillion chapter 2, and some stuff I made up. JRRT's dwarves were crypto-Jews; mine are a little that, and a little something else.

Dwalin tried to enjoy himself, but frankly he was too nervous with Fili out on the streets. Certainly the lad was strong and clever, certainly the neighborhood was reasonably safe. And certainly tradition demanded it -- children always had the right to run to any home for protection, by dwarvish law; at Festival this law was observed and enacted by children roaming from any party to any other, being made welcome everywhere. But Fili was _alone_ out there, in the dark, in the New World full of Men with their stupid laws and stupider violences. Thorin himself wouldn't be so foolish as to wander around like this for hours, while Dwalin waited and worried like a wolfhound chained inside the house. He sighed, rubbing his forehead (at least his rings could be heavy, as the Vashti costume did not allow for knuckledusters). He ladled himself another cup of the very nice non-alcoholic punch.

At long last the Children's Hours came to an end, and Bifur (in badger makeup that suited him very nicely) and Lari (in a king's outfit that suited her even better, now that he looked at it) headed downstairs. They would topple the stack, lock the door, and pick up the rock trail. Dwalin had very purposefully kept himself from watching out the windows, but he hovered near the stairwell as they went. Just then he heard Fili's familiar tread coming up -- and just like that, he could breathe again. He drained his very nice punch in one long swallow, and went to pour himself something stronger. By the time Fili actually came in, with Lari and Bifur beside him, Dwalin had regained enough composure to greet the lad with an ordinary crashing of foreheads and a hug.

"Did you have fun?" he asked, and Fili nodded. His child's costume, with its big-eyed makeup, oversized paws, and floppy ears, were just the slightest bit at odds with his strong solid form (he'd been state wrestling champion the previous year, Mahal bless him) and the braids in his golden mustache, just barely long enough to wear in blue-and-amber beads. "Childhood's end," he added, not sure he was going to until he heard himself say it aloud. Fili's eyes got bigger, and he nodded fractionally. Dwalin hugged him again, harder, then shook them both a little. This was a festival, and they should enjoy it. "Are you going to be in the play?"

"I don't think so," said Fili, straightening himself. "I'd rather watch, this time."

"All right." Dwalin touched the longsword on his back, and Fili grinned at him. "I'll try to put on a good show."

People were starting to arrange themselves for the play. Dwalin dressed as Queen Vashti had obvious claim on her part; there was at least one more Queen Vashti in attendance, and several Esthers too, and an assortment of people he presumed to be queens of other identities (one seemed to be Queen Victoria, judging by the skirts) or entirely without portfolio. They arranged themselves in a corner of the staging area, grinning at one another, pulling out weapons and rocks. Dwalin's sword was an heirloom, a real weapon as opposed to a wooden costume piece. But he had trained with it since childhood, and worn it in plays many times besides; the sharp edge notwithstanding, he had no intention of doing more than tapping anybody gently with the flat. But the rippled metal would shine and ring, and he could strike at other people's props. He found himself smiling his fighting smile, then nearly dancing with the sword as he ran through a close-space drill.

Musicians struck up, all kinds of instrumentation from drums and viols to what Dwalin thought must be a musical saw. Someone brushed a curtain off a piano, and chords echoed through the space. Not a word was spoken. The animals in the play formed a ring at the edge of their space; they lay down on their faces and curled into one another, representing the world not yet formed. The kings and queens lay down inside them, similarly still and silent against the playing of the First Music. Bifur stepped out among them, his badger costume irrelevant: he was now Mahal the Maker. "My children, be with me!" he said, and all the kings unfolded themselves to come near him. They sat at his feet, and Mahal handed them gifts -- tools and toys, and Dwalin recognized Bifur's own handiwork. The kings held their treasures aloft, and audience sighed aloud at the beauty.

There was a crashing noise on the piano, all the music went wildly discordant, and the clowns came running in. There was a fight scene of sorts, where the clowns attempted to steal Mahal's gifts and abuse them (at least one glass item got smashed and Dwalin winced; it was part of the ritual, but he always hated that bit). As always, the kings prevailed. Some things were lost and some were stolen, but the tools and toys had somehow been put to use -- they were assembled to make a throne of sorts, and Bifur-Mahal was seated upon it and raised up on the shoulders of his kings. The clowns knelt around them, and the music returned to a single sweet old tune: _By Our Maker's Hands_.

Mahal jumped down and the throne was disassembled again, the kings pantomiming their work now (the props would be taken away for souvenirs, so there was always a bit of a scramble for the best parts, but it wasn't truly a fight scene). The clowns joined them for the duration of the song, but at the end of the song there was a shout: Lari came striding in with fists aloft. Her Ezzik costume didn't matter either: she was acting as Eru, the One.

"What have you done?" she screamed at Mahal, who dropped his tools. "These are not people," she said, gesturing around contemptuously at all the players, who fell to the ground moaning. "They're puppets," she said. "Pointless. Worthless. You defied me and you should have NOT."

Bifur-Mahal knelt before her, a small weeping animal in front of a crowned king. "I'm sorry," he said, "I will break them," he said. He scrabbled around on the floor until he found a hammer, then half-rose, still half-crouching before the frowning, sneering face of Lari-Eru. He raised the hammer, and then EVERYONE SCREAMED.

There was no music and no room for it. Everyone at the party screamed, and cried, and yelled "No!" and "Please!" and "You mustn't!" as loud as they could, with all possible feeling. Bifur-Mahal waited, astonishment slowly crossing his painted face. Then he stood to his full height, held out the hammer, and dropped it to the floor.

This hammer was glass too, and it also shattered, which neither Dwalin nor anyone else had expected. There was an unscripted gasp and silence, into which Lari-Eru spoke with confident chill. "You have been disobedient and shown remorse," she pronounced, "and see how I have given your puppets true life now. But NOT YET. First they shall SLEEP."

The animals all rose up then, and escorted the kings to the edge of the stage, laying them down where they had curled up themselves before. The music came back, and the stage belonged to the animals for awhile, making their noises and dancing. (Dwalin remembered his own childhood; he had especially liked going as a ram, so he could leap about and batter people with his head.) Then the Men characters arrived -- Hamans and Marcs and Mordecais, plotting and counterplotting, a lot of murmuring and fake conversation. They drove the animals from the stage, and hounds and rabbits and what might have been an armadillo leapt over the sleeping Kings and joined the audience; their part was over for now. Then "Vashti, come show yourself!" yelled a Man character, and so it was Dwalin's turn. 

"I will not," he said, drawing Vashti's sword. The other Vashti, on the other side of the stage, did the same.

"Then you are banished," said the men. Dwalin and the other Vashti turned their swords towards them, driving the Men towards the stage's center, then stalked off to circle around the edge of the stage, guarding the sleeping Kings.

"Ladies, come show yourselves!" cried the Men, and all the other Queens (Esther, Victoria, and anyone else who happened to be a queen) came to join them. More mumbling, more plotting. Meanwhile, the Kings began to stir, stretching and crawling and reaching out. Dwalin helped one to his feet, and then another (this one played by a tiny child in a long white dress and a cotton-wool beard, it was all he could do to lift her respectfully rather than kiss her precious little head). Eventually all the Kings were standing, and the Men rushed them -- only to be stopped by the ring of Queens, with their assortment of raised swords and fists and cloaks and petticoats.

"We must live in peace," said a Queen Esther, and the others repeated her. "Live in peace," said the Queens, then the Kings, then the Men. Then the animals who had been on stage, and the audience. The music returned, playing _Live Long in Peace_ as a hymn. 

Everyone sang along, more or less, and with that the play was over. Dwalin was exhausted, and sweating in Vashti's long plain dress. Her virtues were modesty and stubbornness, of course, and she had the best sword part, but he forgot every year how tiring he found it to play her. But there was Nori, dressed in motley and grinning at him, and holding out a tall glass full of some iced drink. Dwalin smiled back and went to him. There was no sight better to celebrate in the world.


	6. Audience (Em)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a guest who is not a dwarf, but who will be made welcome.

At the door of Lari's husband's shop, Em hesitated. The sign said CLOSED, and there were no lights on in the downstairs windows. But Lari had not only told her to come but sent an invitation, with many specifics of times and instructions and allowances. Em had dressed up -- the party was a masquerade, apparently, among other things -- and she felt both quite comfortable and completely ridiculous standing out on a sidewalk in Winter Hill. She looked to make sure, and there was the little stack of three stones that Lari had mentioned by the threshold; this was obviously the right place and the right time. She took one deep breath, opened the door, and went inside.

There was the line of stones she was supposed to follow, like Hansel and Gretel in the fairy tale. The sounds of a party -- music, laughter, chatter, and stamp -- echoed down from above. Em went, careful not to step on the stones. It was tempting to stop in the store, which was clearly a toy shop, full of dolls and stuffed animals and tin trains, but the sign had said CLOSED, and she had not been invited as a customer. Anyway she was twenty, old enough for a soldier even if she was still too young to vote. She followed the stones through a storeroom and up several flights of stairs, and then emerged into a great open skylit space, and there was the party.

Most of the people there were dwarves, as Lari was, so bearded and short -- nearly every one of them shorter than Em herself, and she certainly wasn't tall or even average, in her own previous experience. There were also lots of children, who were even shorter, though they didn't have beards. Em had on a fake mustache, and had darkened her cheeks and chin with coal-dust, to go with her red-and-blue French soldier's outfit, and somehow that meant she felt even more like a fraud than usual. She cringed internally, the more so as people around her said what were probably welcoming things in Khuzdul. Lari had described them in the invitation, but in reality it was all just so much noise in her ears, and Em cringed. She could not make out a single syllable, let alone try to mouth a response. She nearly started to apologize, to turn around and rush back out -- only there was Lari, who had clearly seen her from halfway across the vast room. So she squared her shoulders and made a soldiery sort of nod, and went to greet her like a proper guest.

"Gamutmerag, Em my dear," said Lari when Em approached. Her deep voice was slow and clear enough that Em caught the word precisely, and translated for herself: _good holiday_. She was wearing elaborate braids and robes and a crown; she bowed, and Em bowed back.

"Gamutmerag, Lari." Her voice sounded thin and reedy, and she worried about her pronunciation. But Lari was smiling, looking pleased.

"I'm so glad you came," she said. "Some others from the sewing circle were here earlier, Jenny and Peg and Peg's sister, but they didn't come in costume and they hardly stayed ten minutes." She rolled her eyes, and Em decided right then she would stay past midnight no matter what. "You're a soldier, sir?" she added. "What's your rank?"

Em grinned. Lari made everything so easy and fun. "Marc de Marseille, votre Capitaine, at your service," she said, with a better bow this time.

"And I am King Ezzar," she said. "You'll see me in the play, but I won't be the king then -- I'm a host, so I'm going to be the Eldergod. It'll be in Khuzdul, but I think you can enjoy it as a pantomime. If you miss anything or you're curious," and suddenly of all things Lari seemed shy! -- "we can talk all about it later. Tea on Tuesday, yes?"

"Of course, my king," said Em warmly, and Lari smiled back.

"And most everyone here does speak English," Lari added, "just we don't so much, at holidays. So don't hesitate to talk to anyone. My husband can't, but he'll find someone to help if he needs to."

Em nodded, secretly relieved. Lari showed her around to food and the bathrooms, the balcony and the cushions, and poured her a glass of sweet amber cider. Eventually she found herself on a low cushioned bench by the bottom of the stairs, eating cheese and crackers and watching some kids play cats'-cradle. They were saying some rhymes as they did them, Khuzdul or nonsense, Em couldn't tell. One was clearly dressed in a miniature version of Lari's king costume, another was a floppy-eared puppy, and one was in motley and bells. Behind them a string trio in matching tattered ribbons were playing "West End Blues," and while she did not dance, Em tapped her toe along. Maybe she wasn't exactly the belle of the ball -- not that she ever wanted to be the belle of a ball -- but she decided she was having a nice time.

Around the time she finished her food, the energy of the party shifted noticeably. People were organizing here and there, making space, Em realized, for the play. As people shuffled around, someone sat down beside her on the bench, and Em realized she recognized him: Fili, from the wrestling team at high school.

He looked both older (mustache with little braids and beads in it) and younger (lion-cub costume with big floppy paws) than she remembered. She had graduated the year before, and thought he was one class behind, although dwarves' ages were somehow different, slower, and she didn't honestly know exactly how. But he smiled at her, friendly and normal as if they'd been in the high-school cafeteria, and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Fili, you're Emily Jardaine, right?"

She smiled back, but was a little irked. "Je m'appelle Marc de Marseille, Capitaine de la guerre, monsieur," she said, though she shook his hand. It was no longer than her own, but much broader, with blond hair on the back.

"Excusez-moi, mon Capitane," said Fili seriously. "Je suis juste un petit lionceau," and Em laughed. They'd been in French One together her sophomore year, and she didn't remember enough vocabulary to go on.

"Gamutmerag," she said instead, and Fili let go of her hand.

"Gamutmeragzu," he replied easily, leaning back. "Here comes the play! May I tell it to you in English, or would you prefer I struggle with French?"

"English is fine," she assured him. It was nice, then, to have someone just telling her the story as it happened. There was the Maker (Lari's husband Bifur, in stark and striking black and white), and the Seven Kings (she was pretty sure there were more like ten, but apparently the actual numbers of actors didn't matter to the enactment). There was singing, during which Fili just drummed his fingers on the bench, allowing Em to tap her foot as well. He warned her before the screaming was going to happen, so she was able to join in properly for that. When the Maker's hammer broke and shattered, she saw sudden tears in his blue eyes, and she drew a deep breath in sympathy. Lari was a terrifying Onegod, and Lari hoped she never heard her take that voice in real life, at least not unless they had to have more protests. The play was certainly a vivid pantomime -- there were animal dancers, and Queens in long skirts with beards and swords -- but it was nice to have a low voice explaining it in her ear, much better than trying to figure it out from Lari's letter, or trying to memorize things to ask later.

The play ended with _Live Long in Peace_ , which she recognized from the tune, and then there were long choruses in different languages, as with the version she already knew. "Peace forever, pax et justitia, Friede, Freude...." Em sang along then, and Fili did too. His voice was much deeper singing than speaking, which she envied, but she sang on louder to compensate.

The song apparently also ended the play, and people began milling about afterwards, talking loudly. Fili coughed, then said, "I'm parched. I'm going to grab some punch. Would you like me to bring you anything?"

"Cider, please," she said, and he took her mug. She watched him disappear into the crowd, and felt entirely happy to be there.


	7. Scene Shift (Bifur)

Bifur knelt with the dustpan and a little broom, sweeping up bells and shards of glass. The hammer had gone particularly well this year. He was not yet properly a glassmaker, though if he continued to spend time in Nokkvi's studio, that might yet be; but this year's hammer -- carefully constructed of fragile glass, taped together with lead shot and bells for the scattering, shattering sound -- had smashed exactly as he'd planned. The party's stunned silence at the effect had pleased and awed him. It also got him past the hardest moment, for himself, in acting the part of the Maker in the play -- where he was supposed to threaten to destroy his own children, the forbearers of Bifur's own people, the dwarves.

There was a lot of theological struggle about the matter. Some said Mahal never meant to kill the Kings, that he was playing a kind of game of chicken against his own parent, and would have spared them if the Onegod had not flinched. Others said Mahal believed his parent, and thought that smashing the people meant nothing. As a maker of actual dolls, Bifur imagined he would, himself, refuse to destroy them no matter who complained. They were art, and art mattered. What was so objectionable about anything, if it were only made with love? What if it was beautiful? -- he had arguments, but of course, no answers. It was not, he decided, his work to have answers. His work was to make things, beautiful things when he could, or useful ones. He would not break them, he thought, even if Mahal himself called his work heretical. Any gods could break things for themselves.

He set the pan aside, brushing his fingers carefully over the floor to make sure everything was clean. Lari was behind him with a mop, and he got out of her way. Bombur and Bofur were coming around together, hanging sheets tied into hammocks and arranging pillows on the floor. Bombur's wife and children were changing out the food, replacing the dinner things with lighter delicacies -- fresh fruit and chocolates, a huge urn of ice water and another of lemonade, and a great many bottles of brandy and sweet wine. The last reminded him to look around for Fili, who was ensconced on a bench with a Man. 

Bifur was not entirely surprised. Lari had invited some number of Men; women of Men in particular, with whom she shared much political activity (and, Bifur knew, the occasional love affair). And of course Fili went to school with Men, and would have friends among them. Bifur's lack of English did not often restrain him, but he decided it would be the better part of manners to only smile as he went past them. Their guest might be invited, or like Fili a child; children's privilege would hardly be restricted only to dwarves on a religious occasion. The Man had a mustache, although not a particularly convincing one -- but anyway he was a guest, and Fili seemed taken with him. They both turned as he went by, and smiled back as he headed up.

Upstairs was already almost entirely adults, and the few remaining children from the upper level were being herded down as Bifur went by. He pushed aside the drapery that covered his workbench, found a bin, and emptied the dustpan into it. He'd go through it later to salvage the materials. For now he tucked it aside, pulling out instead some boxes he'd prepared in advance -- little vials full of unguents, trays full of condoms, clean soft rags, and candle lamps that would extinguish themselves if tipped over. His cousins had already been at work up here, and the floor was mostly covered with softening surfaces, and the wide couches and tables draped with decorative, protective cloth. For a moment he considered the laundry they'd be doing all the next week, and half sighed and half laughed. Then he took his boxes and went about arranging the party supplies, lighting the candles until the mezzanine danced with golden light.

On the main floor, the music had gone gentle. A string ensemble played soft tunes, and people were dancing alone or with partners, while on the far side of the room some children were lying down to sleep. Quite a few families had left, and he saw Lari surrounded by guests waiting to say goodbye. Bifur caught Bombur's eye, and signed _Thanks_ to his cousin the architect -- these upper stories were not only perfect for Bifur's workshop and Lari's studio, but the best of all possible party spaces. Bombur's arms were full of cushions, so he couldn't sign back, but he smiled.

His last task was mostly superstition, and involved checking that the hot-water tap worked at both the workshop sinks -- there had been that one terrible year when the pilot light on the boiler had gone out, and nobody said anything. Bifur had discovered the loss himself, in a drunken, pre-dawn haze of attempting to wash (with whom? -- he could not remember), and had to stumble down to the basement to re-light it. Now he cleaned his hands and face, soaping and rinsing and saying a blessing. He flicked water-drops in all directions, saying another to sanctify the space. He went back down the steps and drew the curtain across the opening, officially signifying the celebration's entrance into its next phase.

Then he climbed back up to the top. He stripped off his clothes and put them in one of the baskets stacked there. He poured himself a cup of cold water and made his way over to his favorite wide couch, beneath the arched window whose view looked clear across town and over the river, into Boston. The city glowed outside, miniaturized by distance, like a beautiful, shining toy. The cushions creaked as he settled back, enjoying, and waiting to further enjoy.


	8. Privileges 2 (Fili)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing games!

As various adults began, with various degrees of pride or discretion, to slip upstairs, Fili became a bit concerned for Em's -- le capitaine Marc's -- Mannish modesty. Of course nobody would get too rowdy in the children's area; already some of the littlest ones were being tucked in to sleep over by the windows, and the swing band was playing a lullaby. But at least a dozen kids were playing "kiss tag" -- not a thing their teachers would have tolerated at recess, even in high school! -- and Fili had to wonder what Marc made of it. 

For his part, Fili made a show of ignoring the antics, even when his cousin Oin strode by with his oliphaunt costume already stripped bare to the waist. Marc had been interested by the play, and asked questions, so Fili went on telling stories. He was going on about Yavanna and the Ents when suddenly Ausgeir, the kid he'd brought along to the Schwartz party, appeared before them. In one deer-hoof glove Ausgeir held an orange, studded over with cloves, and he was smiling as he caught Fili's eye. "Catch?"

Ausgeir tossed the orange and Fili caught it. Doing otherwise would have been awkward, and Fili had no desire to be rude to the little deer. "Excuse me," he said to Marc, and turned to the younger child. "I caught you!" he said. He rolled up the paw at the end of his costume sleeve and plucked out a clove, then placed it carefully between the knuckles of his middle fingers before extending his hand. Ausgeir knelt and kissed the back of Fili's hand, rather wetly, then took the clove between his teeth and pulled back. He smiled again, bowed, and darted away.

"I'm sorry," said Fili. The orange was sitting in his lap. "It's, you know. Games."

"Kissing games," said Marc, a bit wickedly. "Men play them too, you know. There's lots of different kinds. Spin the Bottle, Yakyak, Pony Express."

Fili was bewildered. "What's Pony Express?"

"It's like Post Office, but with more horsing around!" Marc laughed, and Fili had no idea what Post Office was either, but couldn't help laughing along. "It's your turn now with the orange, isn't it?"

It was, and Fili felt himself starting to blush, so he decided he might as well go for it. He picked up the orange and waved it at Marc, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "Catch?"

Marc put his hand up, and Fili tossed the orange the whole twelve inches between their hands. "I caught you!" said Marc, and now his grin was entirely wicked. He pulled out a clove with his teeth and held it there, beneath his ridiculous and adorable fake mustache. Fili found he wasn't laughing as he leaned forwards.

He bit down on the clove -- a little too hard, and there was the sharp taste -- but Marc had not released it. Fili tugged a little, and then he softened his mouth, and they were kissing.

The fake mustache felt like genuine silk, and Marc's mouth was even softer beneath it. The kiss lingered. Fili felt his face heating up, then his entire body, as if Marc were Mahal and Fili set to be forged. His hands came up, and he didn't know if he were reaching out or trying to keep his distance. Marc grasped them back, long fingers entwining Fili's, and the cloved orange pricked his palm.

Some time later their mouths drew apart. Fili swallowed hard, realizing as he did so that he'd actually eaten the clove, which was mortifying. But Marc's face was flushed too, and his eyes wide, and Fili laughed a little. "Go on," he said, "you have to pass the orange along to somebody." They were still holding hands.

"Can I come back?" Marc's voice was a little too high, almost thready, and Fili wanted to kiss him again already.

"Yes, of course," he said. "It doesn't have to be a game." 

Marc nodded sharply. His long hands squeezed Fili's before he let go, then he stood up, executed a quite military salute, and stalked away.


	9. Persons (Lari)

The baby had fallen asleep between Lari's and Ebba's shoulders as they danced slowly to the lullaby. When the tune changed, they clung together, moving to a low couch that had been pushed up against the wall, under the windows. Lari lay Ebba back and kissed her face, then drew a blanket over her and her little one. Ebba smiled and shut her eyes, and the baby didn't stir.

Lari admired them for a moment, as they glowed in the gentle candlelight. She was acutely conscious of her own happiness, bubbling with it, with love for her guests and joy in their celebration. In her own party, in her own home, in her own element; everything was exactly as she liked it. She went over to the refreshments table to check on everything, and also to get some lemonade. When her glass was full she turned around, and there was Em -- Marc -- the youngster from her sewing circle in the French soldier costume, mustache a bit mussed up. Lari saluted, and Marc gestured vaguely back with a cloven orange.

She grinned; she couldn't help it. "Bonsoir, monsieur; voulez-vous galocher avec moi?" Then it occurred to her that might be a bit forward, and also that the poor young thing's French might not be up to that vocabulary. She added in English, "So, my dear -- are you having fun?"

Marc grinned back. "Yeah," but then added in a questioning tone, "I think so?" He gestured with the orange, and then after a moment said even less certainly, "Catch?"

Lari smiled and set her lemonade back on the table, nodding, and raised her hands. Marc tossed her the orange, and she caught it. She pulled out a clove and stuck it between her knuckles, and Marc knelt, kissing the back of her hand as he took it in his teeth. "There you go," she said reassuringly, helping him back to his feet. "Tell me how you are doing."

"I liked the play. Fili's here, we were in school together, and he translated the whole thing for me." Marc's color, always rosy, heightened a bit at the heir's name.

Lari suppressed a smile and only nodded. "He's a very nice young man," she said. "Have you two been kissing?" It wasn't much of a guess, but Marc turned even redder.

"Yes," he said, and then rushed on, "but I thought he was gay, I mean, a lot of dwarves are, right? You said it was okay among your people...."

"That's right," said Lari, who had not the least idea of Fili's particular tastes. "Do you mind if he is?"

"Well, no," said Marc, "only we were kissing, and I, umm, I think we might do more of that?"

Lari reminded herself firmly that the person in front of her, mustache and all, was at least in theory a woman of Men. But she had rather little use for that kind of theory, if she were honest, and it came out blunt: "So do you mind if you are gay, too?"

Marc -- Em -- barked a laugh. "No, I guess not. But, well, am I? I mean, you know me...."

Ah, women of Men. Lari loved them, including this one, who was and probably always would be substantially too young for her personal tastes -- but perhaps this one might at least still be a little open to education, and perhaps a little less foolish than some. "I've known you for years," she said reassuringly. "And if you're monsieur le capitaine, a gentleman and gay as a three-dollar bill, well, you certainly are welcome to be, tonight or any other time. And if you're a young woman of Men, of course I know you anyway, but you might consider shaving your mustache off for fashion's sake." The mustache was halfway off anyway, but Lari restrained herself from straightening it. Beneath it, Marc's mouth hung half-open, and Lari sighed. She turned away and drew up a cup of cider, which she handed to her friend. "You can be as you like, you know," she said. "Le capitaine or une soldate. A king or a queen, or royalty without gender; at a masquerade party, or for everyday use. I know your people have more ideas about it," she added, before the youngster could interrupt, "but I still don't see how it could up to anyone but you. So," and now she slowed herself down, making sure to make space: "What would you like to be?"

The costumed soldier hesitated, then took a long drink of cider, then set the cup down firmly on the table. "Marc de Marseille. At your service, my king?"

"At yours and your family's," said Lari. Marc grinned at her, wider than anything, then grabbed his cider and ran off. Lari sighed and picked up her lemonade, but when she lifted the glass to her mouth, she noticed she was smiling, too. Anyway, she had the cloven orange; next she'd have to find someone to kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "galocher" became officially french in 2014, but was apparently slang before then :)


	10. Tradition (Bifur)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the host is pretty nice.

People ascended the stairs in couples mostly, which Bifur found faintly disappointing. In the old country, people took responsibility for themselves and entered sacred spaces alone, even if they had plans to meet up with their loved ones. Thus it was said to have been with the Firstcrafted: each dwarf was set solitary, under stone, during the long silent time imposed upon them at the beginning of the world. This element of the ritual was to celebrate meetings and reunions, not just affirm pre-standing arrangements. But he raised his glass of water and pronounced the same benediction upon whomever passed him: "May thou find love, may thou find peace, and may thou revel in the body Mahal made for thee." (He was vaguely aware that English did not discern between singular and plural forms of second-person pronouns. Khuzdul did, of course, and the ritual blessing was addressed to the individual rather than the group. He only hoped the guests were all able to understand and appreciate it that way.)

The more religious among them would pause to kneel by his couch and exchange a ritual kiss. A few hearkened back to his having been Mahal in the play (despite his having thrown off that role entirely, along with his clothes) and answered, "Blessed am I by your crafting," which was predictable but always intensely humbling. Others repeated the blessing back to him, or replied with "Amen." 

Oin came alone, carrying his clothes and such in his own bag, and embraced Bifur solidly after the ritual kiss. Bifur pulled him onto the couch, and they spent some minutes holding each other close and whispering silly things, as they had many years in the past. A few more guests passed by, and Bifur did not bless them with words. His face was buried in Oin's soft pelt, his mouth full of the heavy gold that pierced Oin's pap -- all were blessed by their example, he thought, dizzy with the taste of rich metal and the heat and pounding of the heart behind. Then Oin wriggled away, and Bifur sighed with disappointment as he let go. But Oin only turned over on one side, reaching for his bag, then rolled back on top of Bifur with something folded inside his hand. "With your blessing?" Oin inquired, and Bifur laughed.

"Mine and our maker's," he answered, though truly he was not sure what to expect. Oin had never been a lover of any routine or regularity. His one constant, if you could call it that, was creativity and invention. They had been shieldbrothers besides, and Bifur trusted him entirely. So much that he shut his eyes as Oin fussed a bit, and kept them closed as Oin prodded him this way and that. He ended up on his knees, forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, with Oin's warm bulk behind him. Oin leaned over his shoulder and chuckled, then pressed his face in to kiss Bifur's eyelids.

"Good lad," said Oin, and Bifur shivered. Not many people would call him that. His hammer was hard, nudging against the sofa cushions. Oin settled himself with his teeth gently closed at the nape of Bifur's neck, and then took hammer in one hand and pushed up into anvil with the other. Both hands were incredibly wet with some sort of slick, and also incredibly cold -- no, hot -- and Bifur stammered and yelped in no language at all. Oin chuckled again, biting down a little harder. _Tell me how you like this,_ Oin signed on Bifur's skin, both hands at the same time. It was a chorus of language and sensation, and Bifur struggled for words in any language.

He had been clutching the windowsill, but managed to let go, reaching up and back to find Oin's head and braided hair. He pushed his fingers through, gripping close to the scalp, and forced his fingers to trace out an answer: _So much. Give me more._

Oin bit him properly then, a little spike of pain that made Bifur wince and then nearly swoon. Oin licked over the same spot soothingly, even as he pushed another broad finger -- with more of the slick, more hot-and-cold, more stretch-and-pressure inside. "Here's more for you, lad," he whispered. "All that you want, all that you'll have." Bifur writhed, thrusting backwards and forwards, up into Oin's grip, down onto the penetration behind. "I want to fuck you," said Oin at length, and Bifur dropped his head into a nod. He leaned forward, setting his hot, scarred face against the chill of the windowpane, and tried to arrange his knees into some inviting angle.

Oin laughed again, quite kindly, as both his hands withdrew. He left Bifur facing as he was, but couch cushions were shifted here and there, and he ended up bent rather more forwards. One of Oin's hands came around to grip him again, freshly wetted with that slick (how could he still be so hot? -- or cold? -- which it was, he could not tell), while the other guided Oin's hammer inside. Bifur felt the familiar ornaments -- the spearing brilliance of mithril, the sensuous swirl of fire opal, then at last a great stretch and the gentle weight of amber -- and as Oin moved he was overwhelmed. His forehead crashed against the window, and he felt the glass crack into spiderweb; Oin was roaring beside his ear, and he could hear nothing else.

Then the dearest, most beloved voice spoke up clearly, "Catch?" Bifur opened his eyes and saw orange flying towards towards them, bright as a setting sun. Oin had pulled back at the sound, but he pulled Bifur close in that instant, and the orange was caught between their bodies. It pricked against Bifur's back, and then he was laughing again, with laughter all around him.


	11. Rule-Bending (Oin)

Oin had, in honesty, never been completely comfortable with Lari. Or with ladies at all, if he were honest with himself. Particularly in the New World, where being a woman so obviously opened oneself to all manner of restriction and disrespect, as if being a dwarf (which was not entirely as optional, though he knew a few who passed for Men) weren't source of bigotry enough. He knew that her craft was in fighting against such nonsense, and he respected that. But it was a war of abstractions to him, and he'd found himself a healer after too many battles that drew too much blood. 

Bifur, by contrast, was leaning back on him, bonelessly relaxed and chuckling, arms spread wide. Oin shuffled them around a bit -- he was strong, but Bifur was heavy and not helping -- so that they lay lengthwise along the couch, Bifur mostly on top, rather than facing out the window. The orange rolled down and nestled itself on Oin's belly, against Bifur's hip. Lari stood a few feet away. She was not smiling, only watching, as if they were children at some serious play and she an adult who might or might not join in. Oin knew how the game with the cloved fruit went -- by rights he should pick the orange up and say "You caught me!", and then he would have to choose some sort of kiss, on the mouth or hand, and then take the orange along to somebody else. It seemed incredibly awkward, somehow, although he was well aware that little children were playing this game for fun downstairs. The alternative was to toss it back in silence, but that seemed even worse. Lari waited. She was naked, except for the mithril crown still in her royally elaborated braids. Her bodily pelt was grayer than her dark hair and beard, and her paps dark and prominent; her left bore a nursing-token of green titanium and golden topaz, and her right a barbell of plain steel.

He must have waited too long, because Bifur picked up the orange and started to peel it with his fingers. It smelled delicious, but it was an abrupt and peculiar turn to the game -- entirely in Bifur's character, he realized, as he heard Lari snort. Bifur handed him a section, and he bit down into the sweetness and the tang. He knew there was water somewhere, but this was, he had to admit, substantially nicer. "Come have some," said Oin to Lari. "It's very good."

It wasn't the game, but she came and sat on the edge of the couch, not touching either of them. Bifur gave her some orange as well, and she ate it with obvious enjoyment. A drop of juice escaped onto her chin, and Bifur leaned in to kiss it away. He looked beautiful doing it, and Lari's long eyelashes swept down as she gazed at him; in that moment she looked beautiful to Oin, too.

He fumbled for the orange peel with his free hand, and extracted a clove from it. He waved it between the two of them. "How about you kiss each other?"

Bifur and Lari exchanged a warm look and obliged. They were slow about it and gentle, mouths moving softly together. They ignored the clove, and Oin would have felt ignored himself if Bifur hadn't put a hand on him to sign, _How's this?_

"That's nice," he said aloud, and Lari's eyes met his. A moment later she broke the kiss, and Oin thought she might be about to leave. He put up a hand, not touching, but gesturing -- he wanted her to stay. "Would you like to do more?" he asked, and Lari rolled her eyes.

"I climbed the stairs, took off my clothes, and threw a piece of fruit at you for a reason," she replied, voice just slightly mocking. "Bifur's always spoken well of you," she added, more quietly, and her husband put a hand on her shoulder. "You are absolutely gorgeous together."

"You are too," he answered, somewhat surprised that he thought so. They did look well together. Not at all alike, except where their nursing-tokens matched; Lari was darker, and her age shone silver in her hair where Bifur's was pure white. "Umm. I don't know dwarrodams well," he added. "Would you tell me what you like?"

"Women," she said, and Oin felt himself blush; he couldn't tell if he were being corrected about _dwarrodams_ or informed about something Lari liked that he certainly couldn't supply. Bifur laughed and cuffed her, and Lari smiled, ducking her head. Despite her dark complexion, Oin noticed that she was blushing, too. "Oh," she said, with some exaggeration. "You mean with _you_."

Oin nodded. His mouth was a bit dry, but just as he was noticing that, Bifur fed him another section of orange, which was somehow exactly right. He opened his arms to Lari. "Yes. Would you like to lie down on me?" That seemed both intimate and innocent enough to him, and unlikely to be much different from what he was used to, never minding genders or terminology.

"I would." Bifur rose when she said that, and set to rearranging the couch. The cushions were crushed up and the tapestry cover was smeared with spunk and slick, but Bifur moved as efficiently as any orderly or nurse until Oin was stretched out along the couch's length with a fresh sheet beneath him. He lifted Lari entirely off her feet, gave her a quick hug, and gently arranged her so she was lying with her back against Oin's chest. She was heavy, and very warm. Her shoulders were as wide as his own, so he wrapped his arms over them; the mithril crown lay bright against his cheek. Her bottom fit into his crotch very much like anybody else's, and although he'd thought his cock well-spent already, it twitched.

Lari hooked her arms around his, setting his hands on the jewelry in her piercings. Oin did not have the particular love for precious stone and metal that many dwarves did -- all of that had gone to his little brother, in their family -- but the interface between them and living flesh, whole and healthy flesh in particular, delighted him. He rubbed them between his fingers, felt Lari's spine arch and her crown slide upon his face. Bifur was kneeling by their feet, watching. Oin did not know if some signal passed between the two, or if his old lover was only looking at their expressions. But he saw Bifur smile wickedly, then prop both their knees up and apart. He dropped his face to Lari's crotch, teasing out her hammer with his lips and teeth, and the braids in his beard caressed the tender skin behind Oin's stones.

Oin was glad that his position meant that he didn't have to move much, because he was both solidly pinned and entirely transfixed. Lari was crooning with pleasure, her weight shifting upon him, her spread legs driving his own apart. Bifur's jaw worked, and his beard felt electrified where it caressed Oin's skin. The toymaker's skillful fingers must have penetrated them both at once, because Lari and Oin jolted together with the shock and pleasure of it; Oin could not have said who set the rhythm, only that all three moved to it together. When Lari came she crushed Oin's hands down on her jeweled chest, keening and kicking and thrashing. He clung to her with all his strength, then slowly unraveled as she relaxed. He might have come again himself; he was honestly unsure.

Bifur raised his head and climbed over them, settling down on top. Lari and Oin both wrapped their arms around his back. From somewhere he produced the rest of the orange, and fed them each, one sweet section at a time.


	12. Diamonds and Knives (Nori)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY THORINSMUT I WROTE YOU SOME PORN!

Nori and Dwalin went to the stairs together, pushing through the heavy curtain that distinguished the orgiastic part of the celebration from that more appropriate to the disinterested or too young. Whatever reservations Nori may have had about Dwalin's plain and modest Queen Vashti outfit vanished when he made one key observation: it was very easy to take off.

Dwalin had worn no underclothes, so he stood on the landing wearing only the weapons he'd had on underneath -- Vashti's sword (a real one, if Nori were any judge, and old), a smaller knife on his calf, and a revolver on one thigh. And Vashti's rings, while not so obvious as Dwalin's knuckledusters, would doubtless do some damage in a fight. Although Vashti's look was modest, the dress's long hem had also obscured Dwalin's shoes, which were bronze patent leather, strappy and high in the heels -- Nori's heart skipped at that. No wonder Dwalin had seemed even more imposing than usual, with those extra inches on his already impressive height. Dwalin caught him staring, and leaned against the wall, cocking one hip into a pose. Nori swallowed, then met Dwalin's eye with a grin. "Good show," he said, and Dwalin smiled.

"Glad you like," said Dwalin. He set to removing the weapons as well, and maybe something showed in Nori's face, because he hesitated with the sheathed knife in his hands. "It's traditional to go up naked," he said, and Nori nodded. He knew that, in some vague cultural way, although at home Dori never had a sexualized space for the Festival; if anybody did anything of the sort, they just retreated to a back bedroom and shut the door. Dwalin unsheathed the knife, turning it in his hands. It was properly a dagger, Nori noticed, pointed and two-edged; black steel with some runework in gold on the crosspiece. "Though I could bring this to play with, if that's a game you might like..."

His voice had gone deeper and soft at the end, and it turned Nori's knees into jelly. "Sure," he said, trying for a jaunty tone, but it came out soft as well. But Dwalin's smile was just as soft in answer, and he set the knife aside while the sheath and gun and sword went into a clothes-basket. Then he sat down on a step, adding, "I can't wear the shoes up, either. That was just for me to know, and you to see, at least for a moment."

Nori nodded, because anything he could say that equaled his feelings would be soppy and embarrassing, and anything less would be impossible. "Can you keep the bling?"

"Not the tiara," said Dwalin regretfully, pulling that item off the bald top of his head. He inspected his rings -- Nori had already noted that there were fourteen of them, including one actual uncut diamond he could nearly taste by looking at it. "These, well. Not as part of the costume, I shouldn't. As playthings, though...." he trailed off, then caught Nori's gaze with a glint in his blue eyes. "That's more acceptable. Do any of them appeal to you?"

Nori took that as an invitation to come closer, lowering himself to look at Dwalin's hands. He was still dressed in full fool's motley, and he felt it, on his knees before royalty. Dwalin had a claim to that even if he wasn't being Queen Vashti, and somehow it seemed palpable as Dwalin spread his big hands, showing off both his strength and his wealth. "This one," he said, touching the diamond in its elaborately layered steel setting. "And.... this." The latter was carved jade, which Dori had always told him would flatter his coloring.

"You like them big and hard, huh," said Dwalin with a laugh, and Nori nodded vigorously. Dwalin took off the rest of the rings, flexing his fingers, which Nori found mesmerizing. "All right, your turn," he added, pulling Nori close and taking off his belled cap.

It occurred to Nori to resist this as being beneath his dignity, but it felt far too good, those big hands moving him around and stripping him bare. He climbed right into Dwalin's lap as the enforcer removed his boots, and then his tights, and then he clung to Dwalin's neck. He wondered if it would be too much to ask if they could maybe get off a little there -- right there on the stairs? -- what was he _thinking_ , what would _Dori_ think -- !! But Dwalin turned half away to drop Nori's clothes in the basket with his own. Then he lifted the smaller dwarf and carried him up to the next level, which was the proper space for such undertakings. Nori bit his own lip, and tried to arrange his legs to hide how he'd already become hard.

The upper level was full of cushions and tapestries and candlelight, and some soft old-country music on a Victrola, and people in various states of interaction and undress. Nori could just make out their host and hostess, Bifur and Lari, sprawled in a heap with another dwarf on a couch; Dwalin hesitated as they approached them, then walked past without stopping. At length he found an unoccupied space, well back in a corner, and sat down with Nori still in his arms. This suited Nori fine. He turned, trapping Dwalin's hammer (as hard as his own, blessedly, its inset diamond cool and sharp) between them, and let himself rut against Dwalin's solid paunch. For a moment Dwalin held him hard, kissing him on the mouth, but then too soon he took Nori's shoulder and pushed him back a little. His blue eyes were bright as gas-flames in the darkness, and his voice was serious.

"I'm not above religion," said Dwalin. "So let's let this be sacred, all right?" Nori nodded, though it wasn't at all clear what he was agreeing to; he didn't much care as long as Dwalin would kiss him again. And then something with the rings, and the knife... -- but Dwalin was still talking. He said it in English first, and then faster, in Khuzdul: "May we find love, may we find peace, and may we revel in the bodies Mahal made for us."

Nori decided not to be insulted by the translation, which would have honestly taken him writing it down and thinking hard to have done himself. Anyway Dwalin's choice of the English word _love_ made him grin, quite foolishly enough that he almost missed his cap of bells. "Love, peace, and bodies. Thanks Mahal, yeah let's do that."

Dwalin grinned back before pulling Nori in again. His arms were crushingly heavy and hard, but his mouth was soft, moving gently. Nori moaned. Dwalin licked over Nori's lower lip, eliciting another soft sound, then bit down, eliciting a louder one. "Yeah," said Dwalin, kissing him again. "Like that."

It could have been a question, but Nori did not need it to be. He took one handful of Dwalin's beard, which made the larger dwarf gasp in a very pleasing way, and would his other hand behind Dwalin's neck. He bit back, one little nibble at first, then harder and harder as they rutted against one another. Eventually Dwalin made a small, high sound -- shocking in its vulnerability; Nori wondered if he had gone too far with the teeth -- but then he was moving through the air, then landed flat on his back. Dwalin stood over him, big as a mountain, knife and rings gleaming at his hands, the diamond in his hammer shining pale rainbows from its cut facets. Nori trembled with lust and something that wasn't quite fear, but close enough that it was hard to lie still with his hammer poking upwards. He thought of the knife hidden in his braids, but his hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

For a long moment Dwalin just looked at him. Then he said, "Mahal, you look amazing," and Nori couldn't help but arch and preen. "Now, you hold still," said Dwalin, dropping with one knee on either side of Nori's hips like a mountain coming down. "Close your eyes." Nori did not quite want to, but he didn't want to disobey either, so he did. He might have made a little sound of protest, because Dwalin murmured "It's all right," and kissed him. Kissing with eyes closed was even more exciting, disorienting too. Then Dwalin seized Nori's braided beard, and dragged his head to one side, and lay the blade of the knife against his throat.

Nori went utterly still. Dwalin waited a moment, then very slowly dragged the knife down Nori's neck. He could feel that the blade was delicately sharp, but Dwalin was drawing it along the flat down Nori's shoulder and then along his collarbone. He had never felt anything like it. It was both clearly and terribly dangerous, and a wonderful soft feeling trust, to allow somebody to do this. Perhaps Dwalin felt something as well, because he made a little choked noise. Then he lifted the blade away, only to set the sharp point pressing very, very lightly on Nori's left nipple. He spun the knife and the point danced, moving just a little. Nori tried to stay absolutely still, but he was panting like a motor revved too high. Some small, abstracted part of him was impressed by Dwalin's skill, as his chest must have been heaving, but the knife-point rode along with every breath. It lifted away and Nori whined, then abruptly his voice cut off as it touched down again between his hammer and stones.

"Oh, very good," said Dwalin at that. The knife stayed where it was, but Dwalin's face came close to it. His beard and long hair swept across Nori's belly, then his breath ghosted over the tip of Nori's hammer. Staying still was both next to impossible and completely inevitable, and Nori's fists clenched so hard he could feel his own nails cutting into his palms. He heard himself make another meaningless sound, and struggled to gather his wits.

"Can I hold your head?" he asked. His voice might have been a little strained, but he was very proud of that coherent utterance regardless.

"Sure," said Dwalin grandly. Even as Nori doubted the wisdom of distracting someone with a knife on his treasures, he let his hands go where they wanted; one winding into Dwalin's loose beard, the other spread across his bald crown. He pushed, just a little, and Dwalin opened his mouth and took in Nori's hammer entire. He spun the knife, and Nori's stones drew up; he didn't know if he was terrified or about to come. Dwalin closed his lips and sucked, harder and harder and again and again, his tongue sliding sideways and around. The knife-point danced beneath, cold and sharp as the light of a star. Stars danced in the corners of Nori's squeezed-shut eyes as well, then expanded, and his vision went bright and blank as he came.

He realized he'd shouted because he could still feel it in his throat. Dwalin's mouth stayed on him, warm and wet and still now, and he could feel the knife's blunt hilt upon him, lying in the indentation at the top of his thigh. His hands on Dwalin were slack, but he took a little grip, pulling Dwalin up so he could see his face. His expression was soft, and there was a bit of spunk clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"How can you look so calm?" Nori asked, half laughing and half offended, as if Dwalin had taken unfair advantage. But Dwalin lifted a hand in front of Nori's face, with the diamond ring on his middle finger and the jade ring on his smallest, and more spunk over it all.

"Touched myself, looking at you. It was more than enough."

Nori was laughing now, helpless with it and almost horrified. "You're awfully confident with that knife." 

Dwalin nodded as if that couldn't possibly be said sarcastically. "There's things we can do with the hilt," he added. "Think there should be slick around someplace. If you're up for it, of course."

Nori was still laughing, not sure how or if he was going to stop. He put his hand over Dwalin's over the knife. "For you, gorgeous," he managed, "for you, yeah, I'm up for just about anything."


	13. Participant (Marc (Em)))

His mustache came off entirely before too long, but it didn't matter. Fili pushed the scrap of silk thread off Marc's cheek with his mouth, chasing it with little kisses. When he came to Marc's ear he put out his tongue, tracing the top arch of it, and Marc's hands tightened into the velvet of Fili's lion costume. He felt like he was falling, although the wood-and-metal frame of the bench was solid against his back. He took a long, hard breath, then leaned forward to take Fili -- the bare batch of skin on his shoulder, between golden beard and the darker gold edge of lion cloth -- into his mouth.

Fili's tongue flicked away and he gasped into Marc's ear as Marc bit down. Marc felt that breath in his own heart, immensely satisfying; it was a part of the same satisfaction at finding Fili's flesh. Fili's skin tasted sweet and salty; it was soft, but wrapped over tremendous solidity. Marc bit harder, and Fili's arms tightened around him in response. "More, please?" Fili whispered, his voice a thread, and Marc hastened to obey. He chewed on Fili's shoulder, and the older boy -- young man, whatever -- shuddered as he did so; his shoulder pushed back into Marc's mouth. Marc opened his mouth wider, then thought of something that gave him pause -- he released his teeth, and turned to whisper in Fili's ear.

"That might leave a mark," he said, and then had to stop to swallow a giggle at the pun with his assumed name. "Is that all right?"

Fili's chuckle came from his belly, which pressed into Marc's own, and he had to struggle past that feeling to properly listen. "It probably won't," Fili was saying. "I've been wrestling since third grade, and hardly anything shows on my skin. But if you can mark me," and there was the name-sound again, making Marc feel something new and strange and good -- "I'll cherish it" -- and with that Marc was back to Fili's bare skin, sucking for all he was worth. One of Fili's arms stayed locked around Marc's back, holding him close and hard. The other stroked through Marc's hair, blunt nails scraping gently on his scalp. 

Instead of falling, Marc was floating now. _Like Jimmy Olsen when Superman takes him flying,_ he thought. He would have to stop to tell Fili this -- they had swapped comic books a few times, back in French One -- but he couldn't stop sucking, especially now, when there was a metallic edge to Fili's taste in his mouth. Marc thought it might be blood being pulled towards the skin, into his mouth, and the taste and the idea together made him salivate and bite down. 

Fili groaned, and it sounded loud in Marc's ear. He hoped nobody else could hear it. Then he worried, and slowly, he relaxed his jaw, still relishing the heat and taste against his tongue. When he could bear to, he said aloud, "Is this all right? Here at the party, I mean," he added. He wasn't really sure what he meant. In front of the kids playing kissing games, maybe, or at a religious event of dwarves. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it from Fili, just so he could feel sure.

"It's fine," came the whisper back, prompt and reassuring, warm in tone and rewardingly breathless. "We're not..." and then he sighed a little. He kissed Marc's ear and sat back a little, arm still around Marc's body, but no longer pressing together. "Give me a minute, okay?" Marc nodded, even though his heart was falling. Fili's fingers dug into his side, and Marc felt like his heart was held there, just in Fili's grasp. 

"All right," he managed to say, though he could not vouch for his voice. "Do you want some cider?"

Fili shook his head and bit his lip. The beads in his mustache sparkled, and Marc felt absurdly jealous of both jewelry and facial hair. Why did he -- well, of course, he was a woman of Men as Lari would put it; his mustache was long gone and anyway fake. He almost wanted to cry about it, but Fili was saying something, so he listened. "Look," said Fili, "you were invited, Lari invited you, right?" Marc nodded. "So you're an adult," Fili explained. "You could go upstairs and do whatever you wanted, with whomever liked it, and that would be fine. I'm a child, here on children's privilege," something must have changed in Marc's face, because Fili smiled at him then, "so I can't. I have to stay downstairs, where all children are welcome. We can fool around, we can kiss and that's fine, but we can't do anything a six-year-old wouldn't want to see. Clothes on and all."

Fili sounded regretful, but Marc's feelings were mixed. He didn't too much mind losing the fake mustache; spirit gum itched after awhile. But he wasn't sure he could feel like _Marc de Marseille, capitane de la guerre_ if he was naked, breasts hanging out and all. He wasn't sure he wanted to, for all that he wanted more of Fili's skin, for all that his entire body felt a skin-hunger of its own. He put his hands on Fili's face, felt the raw-silk drag of Fili's beard against his palms. 

"That's fine, mon petit lionceau," he answered, then laughed with a bit of rue. "That's more than fine. For now," he added, the bravery of a captain pushing its way into his voice. "Maybe we can be grown-ups together another time." Hearing himself, he felt a backlash as if he had lied; he almost cringed. His knees came up and his arms came down and he curled into a ball on the bench, not touching Fili anymore. He felt like a stranger in his own body, caught inside the red cotton and white wool. It itched where his mustache had been. He heard Lari's voice like an echo in his mind, and tried to repeat those words and believe them: _You can be as you like_ , and _of course I know you anyway_. She'd probably known Fili longer even than Lari; he'd been a year behind her in elementary school as well.

"I'd like that," said Fili. He was still sitting sideways on the bench, one foot on the floor and one leg bent up onto the seat, his hands were open towards Marc, and his face. "For now," he said, holding Marc's gaze, "can we kiss again?"

Marc nodded, and Fili drew him close. They met mouth to mouth, moving. It might have been for now or forever, but whatever it was, it was wonderful.


	14. Just About Anything (Dwalin)

Dwalin was relaxed and deeply pleased with himself and everything else. He was acutely aware that he had begun to associate this feeling with Nori. In theory, he knew this to be dangerous -- Nori might be a dwarf, but he wasn't family, and who knew where his loyalties might lie? -- but in practice, he found it irresistible. _It's a party,_ he told himself. _It's a holiday. Stop being the enforcer, stop being a guard, just have a good time for once._ Nevertheless, he found himself lying on his back with his arms crossed over his chest, caressing his two remaining rings (he did miss the knuckledusters) and listening hard. He could just make out Fili's voice drifting up from the children's area, saying "I'd like that..." in a voice that sounded really quite mature. 

He swallowed a laugh and rolled onto his side, peering at his date. Nori had propped himself half up, sitting with his back to the wall. His eyes sparkled in the low light, and he looked about as pleased as Dwalin felt, which was both reward and a kind of reassurance. Dwalin had lost the thread of their conversation, though, so he took his cue from Fili: "So, Nori," and even his _name_ was just so satisfying to say, "what would you like, now?"

Nori glanced pointedly at the knife still in Dwalin's grip, and then just as pointedly away. Dwalin wasn't sure what to make of that, so he held his tongue, waiting. "I'd like to paint you," said Nori after awhile. "That is, if that's a thing, would they have paint here?" The last came out in a rush.

"Of course, I'm sure." He hadn't seen any upstairs, though there had been some markers down among the kids' things; painting a grown dwarf took different tools, anyway. But it was traditional, and he couldn't imagine Bifur not providing them. "I'll go find some," Dwalin added, standing up. "Here." He flicked the knife to Nori, spinning it end-over-end. Nori caught it, holding Dwalin's eyes, and touched the tip of his tongue to the point. Dwalin grinned back and went to look.

He found a jar full of paint-sticks -- half a dozen different colors and well-used, by the look of them -- near one of the lanterns. He snagged both, and on consideration looked around a bit more. He gathered some cloths, three cups that he filled with water at the sink, a small tub of slick, and a bottle of wine (one of Thorin's, he was pleased to note). Thus equipped, he went back to find Nori tossing not one but two knives idly through the air. There must have been one in his hair after all. Dwalin flopped down and arrayed his findings on the floor beside their cushions. "Is that water?" Nori asked, and Dwalin smiled inwardly and offered him a cup. As Nori took it, he sent the knives into a continuous cascade above his free hand while he drank; it was a showy move, and Dwalin was willing to be impressed. When Nori had drained the cup he set it down, then caught the knives and set them side-by-side next to it.

He leaned over to inspect the paint-sticks, and Dwalin took the moment to inspect Nori's knife. It was short, nearly all point, with hardly any crosspiece; the better to hide, Dwalin thought. His own blade looked heavy and dark beside it. Dwalin made a conscious effort not to read too much metaphor into that, even as he locked the image into his mind to treasure later. He lay down again, sinking into the luxury of the cushions. "How do you want me?" he asked, though when Nori looked over his shoulder Dwalin realized he was already posing; one arm propping up his head, one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee.

Nori waited exactly long enough to acknowledge the double entendre, then answered straight. "Your head and hands are already marked," which was true, "so I don't want to presume on that." Dwalin would not have minded -- it was just paint, after all -- but Nori was still talking. "So. Your feet, your belly, or your back?"

"Belly," Dwalin decided. His feet were terribly ticklish, and he wanted to be able to watch. He rearranged himself and added, "Pour me some wine, please?"

"Water first," said Nori, in tones that would have done Balin proud, so that Dwalin considered what it would be like if the two of them met, as he obediently drank. He was still thinking about it when he passed the cup back and watched Nori fill it with wine. He should properly bring Nori to meet his brother, if they were to the point of attending proper dwarvish events together, but he knew his family could be overwhelming without half trying. Maybe they could just have tea with Dis, first. She was definitely their best judge of character. Dwalin accepted the wine and took a sip -- it was good stuff, and Dwalin reminded himself that he had a reason to make sure that Bifur received the best. Nori had wet down a paint-stick and seemed to be waiting for something, so Dwalin tried to look inquiring. "Ok if I paint flowers?" he asked, slightly rushed.

Dwalin's heart expanded. "That would be lovely," he said. It was both terribly traditional and terribly romantic, an association with Mahal's wife, the Lady of the Flowers. He was certain Bifur would love it, but decided not to say.

"I'm only any good at roses," said Nori, as if he could deny the implication. Dwalin nodded seriously, rather than laugh. His belly was a little ticklish too, and he held himself very still as Nori bent over him. He'd chosen a paint of deep russet orange, actually quite a close match for his own hair, and Dwalin tried not to read too much into that either. His strokes were quick and decisive, the wet lines shining like copper on Dwalin's dark pelt. He drew a vine first, twining from Dwalin's right thigh nearly to his left pap, then returned to outline branches, leaves, and flowers. Dwalin watched, fascinated and flattered, trying not to breathe too hard. His hammer twitched, and Nori patted it without interrupting his drawing. A small sound escaped against Dwalin's will. Nori murmured, "Be patient, big guy," and Dwalin bit his lip, obeying.

Nori swapped out the paint-stick for a pale green. He didn't meet Dwalin's eyes as he highlighted the vine and filled in the leaves, but his free hand crept down to Dwalin's crotch again, cupping his stones, then fingertips tapping on his inset diamond. Dwalin made himself wait, still as a sniper and strugglingly silent -- how Balin would laugh, knowing Dwalin's tendency to rush into battle and yell! -- and how rewarded he was, when Nori looked up suddenly and met his eyes. "It's looking good," said Dwalin, and Nori smiled and took a solid grip on Dwalin's cock.

"Now for some blue," he said. "It's mythical for roses, but it'll match your eyes." Having said that, he picked up two separate paints. First he filled in the petals mostly with white, which struck Dwalin as entirely romantic again. Then the blue went on in shades over it, and little touches into the leaves and stems. It seemed horribly ticklish now, and Nori's other hand stroked all over and around between his legs; his toes curled with the effort of staying put. Nori seemed to read his mind, or possibly just his body, because he said with sudden sweetness, "It's hard to be still, eh? Good thing this is just a paint-stick." Dwalin's attempt to laugh without moving didn't work very well. Nori tutted and got a cloth to remove a smear, and Dwalin seized him by the wrist -- he didn't care if the painting got wrecked; he just wanted to hold Nori close. But Nori shook him off. "You wait," he commanded, and Dwalin let go and leaned back, making fists and opening them again, helplessly.

Nori's free hand continued to pump Dwalin's hammer. He looked around to distract himself and saw Bifur, standing over by the railing and looking back. Their eyes locked, and somehow it helped to know he was being watched; in Bifur's gaze he felt both beautiful and safe. Meanwhile Nori had picked up the first paint-stick again, the orange one, and was making little adjustments to the design. Then, apparently satisfied, he let go of Dwalin's cock and switched the paint-stick to that hand. He planted his drawing-hand in the free space by Dwalin's left hip and began to trace around it. "Your signature?" Dwalin asked.

"My mark," said Nori. He set the paint aside, then made a bit of a show of cleaning his hands with the cloth. If he knew Bifur was there, he ignored it, and Dwalin decided not to say anything. He spread his own hands wide, feeling them so empty, except for Vashti's two rings.

"All right," he said, not loud, but intending to be overheard. "You've marked me, I'm yours. What are you going to do with me?"

"I want to suck your cock," said Nori, purring exactly as he had done the first night at Dougal's. Dwalin squirmed.

"Well. All right," he said, reciting from the memory. Nori smiled at him, scuttled down between his knees, and set to.

Bifur leaned back on the railing, and Dwalin let himself writhe. He was showing off both for his own sake -- the muscles bunching in his arms as he spread and stretched them, the arch of his neck as his head fell back -- and for Nori's, for the art of the roses, for the way Nori made him feel as he set his teeth against Dwalin's diamond. Perhaps Nori was also remembering their first time, as he took Dwalin in both hands as his mouth opened wider, drawing Dwalin inside. Dwalin set his feet against Nori's body where he crouched, rocking them together; he put his hands on either side of Nori's head. It looked as if Bifur was swaying slightly along with them, in time. Dwalin's mouth opened; he needed more breath -- then he was roaring, loud in pleasure and some kind of triumph. He saw Bifur raise a fist overhead to them, an old-world Iglishmek sign, acknowledgment of valor and victory. Dwalin quieted as Nori swallowed, then lifted one hand back in a shaky salute.


	15. Childhood's Friend (Fili)

In the darkest hours, soft notes chimed. Little children were awakened and crowned with candles, and they walked or danced through the hall, carrying silver bells that winked in the shivering light. 

Fili lay on the bench with Marc in his arms, and his mouth was almost sore with kissing. He heard the bells with mixed resentment and relief, both thoroughly exhausted and nearly angry that the festival was coming to a close. He sat up, pulling Marc with him, and cradled him close to whisper in his ear. "It's ending," he said, and Marc nodded.

"I know," he answered. "Lari described this in the invitation." He sounded resigned, Fili thought, and he held both of Fili's hands tight in his own. "I have to go home anyway," he added. "I need to wash and change. I've got to get to work -- I'm on from eight till two." 

Fili looked at the clock. It was just past four. Dwarvish businesses would be closed for the day; Mannish ones, of course, would rattle on like any other Wednesday. "I'm sorry," he said, genuinely dismayed, "that's rough! Will you be able to have a nap?"

Marc laughed, pushing Fili's hair aside and kissing him again. "I'll be fine. I'll have a shower and some coffee, and I'll sleep after my shift. I've stayed up all night for worse reasons," and Fili kissed him back, flattered.

"All right," he said, and on the strength of it added, "want me to walk you home?" Dwalin would kill him, but he didn't care.

"Sure," said Marc, although he didn't sound very sure at all. They stood up together, and Marc towered over him as Men usually did; the top of Fili's head was about at Marc's collarbone. Fili tried not to be self-conscious about that, nor about his childish lion costume. He looked up into Marc's face instead, flushed and handsome, lips swollen from Fili's kisses, and his heart warmed. 

Fili stuck his hands in his pockets to check knives and pistol, then took one out reach for Marc's. "You live downhill towards Davis, right?" he asked. He'd been to Em's for a birthday party in grade school, he thought, and then wondered if he'd overstepped when Marc nodded tightly. "It's not on my way," said Fili carefully, "so, only if you do want." He left his hand out, offering.

"Sure," said Marc again, taking it, and Fili felt like he'd won something. They joined the slow crowd of people heading towards the stairs. There were no lights, according to tradition, and Fili wondered if Marc's Mannish eyes could see at all; he tried to lead with care. Then they were out on the sidewalk, under the glare of electric street lights. Marc led the way northeast. His stride was not too long to match, and he still held Fili's hand.

Soon they were on darker streets, lit only by the occasional lamp lit in a window. Fili's stone-sense made it easy to distinguish between sidewalk, curb, and street, and he steadied Marc's elbow when he tripped. Marc squeezed his hand in thanks, then raised it to his mouth; then they were kissing again, Fili reaching upwards and Marc bending down, right there on the corner. Their mouths moved together, and their arms twined into a hard embrace. The silken mustache was long gone. Marc's tongue teased the beads in Fili's own mustache braids, and Fili groaned aloud.

Dwalin really was going to kill him, if he found out his cousin had been necking out on the street with a Man under the cover of darkness. Fili broke the kiss and let his head fall against Marc's chest. He was exhausted and elated, and that combined with a desire to not get into terrible trouble made him say, "All right, this is great, this has all been totally wonderful all evening. Can we, can I see you again?" He felt Marc's sharp intake of breath against his cheek, felt Marc's arms around him tighten at the same time. He clung back, waiting.

"I don't know?" came the answer, and Fili felt his heart tremble. They were still holding each other tight, and he waited. "I mean, you know me," said Marc. "I'm not, umm, always a soldier."

"I will never be a lion child again," said Fili, not without regret. "This is childhood's end for me." He cocked his head up at Marc, unable to read his expression in the darkness. "If you mean you're not always male, I know it's a thing for, well, people who aren't dwarves? But I don't care," he plunged on. "You can tell me what name you want, and it doesn't matter," he was blushing furiously now, and just as glad for the darkness, "how you're shaped under your clothes. If you want that to be a thing, I mean. We could just, you know, kiss." He was starting to regret having started this line of conversation. "Or not. We could be childhood friends, if you'd be up for that." It occurred to him, with a sudden horror, that Marc might not want to be with a dwarf at all when it wasn't a Dwarvish holiday; he bit his lip against the possibility.

Marc kissed Fili's forehead. "I'd rather we be grown-ups. I meant it when I said that before," and Fili felt a terrible relief. "About being male, I..." he trailed off, and Fili caressed the soft hair at the nape of Marc's neck while he waited. "I don't know. I'm glad I don't have to? It's a relief. I'm going to go inside and wash, and then I'll put on a dress for work. And... you don't care, do you."

"I bet you look great in a dress," said Fili sincerely, "but you're right, I don't care what you wear. I don't care if you want me to call you monsieur Marc, or the name you used to use in school. I care that I do what you want," and then Marc was holding him harder than ever, and kissing him harder too. Fili had been a wrestler in high school, and he fought against both desire and training to keep them both standing in a clinch, rather than tumbling into a takedown on the sidewalk.

"I do want to see you again," Marc whispered, "I do want to kiss you again," and Fili was dizzy with longing even as they did kiss. But he felt time passing; felt dawn pressing towards them. He had to get home before Dwalin did, and Marc had to put on a dress and go to work. He slid his hands down Marc's arms, pushed at his elbows until they were holding hands, then dropped his head and stepped a few inches back. The night air was cool on his face, and Marc's long fingers very warm in his own.

"You can call me," he said. "Our family's in the book under Oakenshield. Let me know when, and how, okay?"

"Yeah," said Marc, "I sure will." He squeezed Fili's hand again, and then they were walking again, side by side. A few minutes later they arrived at a house that still had its porch light on, and a lamp burning within. "My folks must have waited up," said Marc, and this time Fili was the one to squeeze his hand.

"Well, you're home safe," Fili said. "I hope you had a good time, and that you can tell your family so." He did not know what Mannish people would make of any of this, not really, and he didn't even want to think about it. "Good night," and he reached up to kiss Marc's cheek, and whisper in his ear, "and I hope to see you soon."

"Good night, and thanks for everything." There was a soldier's steel in Marc's voice, and he let go of Fili's hand and climbed the stairs to the porch. Fili watched from the darkness as Marc unlocked the door and went inside. Then he spun on his heel, checked his weapons again, and ran as fast as he could back up Winter Hill.


	16. Going Home (Nori)

Nori had worn street clothes to the party, but Dwalin had apparently walked over Winter Hill in his brown dress and heels, and was obviously ready to do so again in the pre-dawn darkness after the celebration. Nori was reluctant to leave his side to change, or for that matter to ask Dwalin to wait. So he grabbed his bag of clothes and trooped out to the sidewalk in his somewhat-disarrayed clown costume. There they stood together, Dwalin solid and high as a mountain in heels and Nori's arms as they embraced. He didn't want to let go.

Then Dwalin bent his head low and whispered, "Want to come back to my place?"

"Oh Mahal yes," Nori whispered, sighing out in relief. Dwalin straightened and coughed, his fingers digging deep into Nori's shoulders beneath the motley.

"My family's enormous," he said, "and willful, every single one of them. You'll likely catch an earful from somebody, no matter how discreet we try to be? But I don't want to be discreet. I want you in my bed," and that low growl made Nori's heart skip a beat.

"All right," he said, somehow trying to be cool anyway, "not like you'd fit in mine," and Dwalin laughed. Nori pulled away. Somehow Dwalin still felt like too much for him, even though he'd never say it aloud. He turned a cartwheel and a handspring to take up time, contain himself, and, yes, show off. Half a dozen other dwarves shouted and clapped at the display, which was terribly inappropriate to the time and place, but gratifying anyway. When he was standing again, Dwalin was right beside him. He was still laughing, and still too much, and still impossible for Nori to set aside.

"Nice," he said, "do you want to keep that up all the way back to mine? It's not far, but I'm just going to walk, myself. I'm not half the acrobat you are," Nori preened, "and I don't entirely trust these shoes."

"We can walk," said Nori grandly, and Dwalin took his arm. Someone who had applauded earlier sent up another hoot, and was promptly hushed; Nori resisted the desire to turn and bow. Dwalin's stride was a little shorter, whether because of the shoes or the hour or the state of his ass (Nori rather hoped) or even possibly just consideration -- Nori didn't care to ask, but he couldn't help but notice, and even less help appreciating. "So," he asked at length, "besides the great Thorin Oakenshield, who do you live with?"

Dwalin hesitated, then said, "Y'know, I'm not used to saying, but that's obviously stupid right now. It's my big brother Balin, Thorin and my other cousin Dis, Dis's wife Farli and their kids Fili and Kili. Fili was at the party tonight," he added, as if Nori hadn't noticed.

"Lion child, right?" he asked, and Dwalin nodded confirmation.

"He's well grown, though," said Dwalin, then clearly decided to change the subject. "Will your own family miss you?"

"Yes," Nori confessed, "but it'll be two days before I'd let them make anything of it." He'd have to decide what to tell them, too, but put that off for now.

Dwalin humphed. "Mine would be off like rockets after half an hour," he said, and the rest of the walk passed agreeably while Dwalin described them and their assorted forms of overprotectiveness. It was funny to think that the Enforcer had people who enforced upon him, and Dwalin told the stories with both humor and and obvious outrage.

The porch light was off, but a lamp was on in the front hall. There were racks and racks for shoes and pegs for coats, and Dwalin sat down on a bench to remove his high heels. Nori took off his own white canvas sneakers, and Dwalin gave him a pair of knitted slippers in exchange. Then he led the way up wide, winding stairs. He paused on the second floor to peer down the hallway, nodding slightly to himself while Nori swallowed a grin. The one closed door must belong to young cousin Fili, and Dwalin wasn't above some overprotectiveness himself. Up on the third floor, they passed two open doors and the bath (they'd washed up before dressing to leave the party), and then Nori was led into the sanctum sanctorum of Dwalin's own room.

It was smaller than he'd expected, with a little window that opened onto tall tree branches. Nori immediately liked that, recognizing it as an escape even as he told himself there would be no need. Most of the room was occupied by a large, neatly-made bed with an absurd number of pillows and a fluffy toy warg at the head; an actual wargskin rug softened the wooden floor. There was a switch for an electric light, but Dwalin lit an oil lamp on the nightstand instead. His shadow was huge, and he looked imposing all over again by the flame, stripping off his rings. The knuckledusters hung off a bedpost, gleaming almost as much as the jewels.

Nori hovered in the doorway, watching. Once Dwalin had tucked the tiara into its spot in a large, plain jewelry case, he turned back to Nori with a slow smile, and his dress came off with a slow flourish. The weapons followed, and Dwalin's face went serious again, holding Nori's eyes as knives and gun also went to hang from the bedpost. The sword went last, to a place on the wall with reverence. Then Dwalin came to take Nori's bag and his hand, and tugged him over to the bed.

It was softer than Nori had expected, the quilt plush and thick, and it felt even nicer to have Dwalin taking off his clothes now than it had at the party. The lamplight flickered, and every small sound seemed magnified in their privacy; the brush of cloth and Dwalin's slow breath. When they were both naked and Nori's costume was folded and set on top of his bag, Dwalin blew out the light. He climbed onto the bed beside Nori, maneuvering him until they were both under the covers, Dwalin spooning him from behind.

"Do you pray?" Dwalin whispered, and somehow that question was even more of an intimacy than being held in Dwalin's arms, in his bed, in his home.

Nori didn't, as a rule, but he felt as if he not only could but ought. "Sometimes," he whispered back. "Let's?"

So they whispered together, in Khuzdul like warm stones rumbling from Dwalin's mouth in the dark:

 _Praise unto you,  
Mahal our maker,  
who brings sleep to our eyes.  
May we lie down in peace,  
as our fathers slept  
at the beginning of the world.  
May we wake in peace,  
to learn and create  
as you taught us  
and live blessed by your glory.  
As you gave us form  
we give you thanks  
now and always.  
We wait to meet you  
and all our kind  
to make the world  
together anew.  
_

Dwalin's last words were half a snore. Nori lay still, feeling held like a gemstone in its setting. Everything seemed impossibly peaceful, soft and safe. He tried to stay awake to treasure it, but he felt his own breath slow, and it was easier than anything to let his eyes close.


	17. After Ecstasy... (Bofur)

Bofur woke up to the sound of silver bells. Children wearing candles and ringing chimes wandered through the hall, and he stretched luxuriously, lounging and listening as the guests began to rise and take their leave. When the room grew quiet again he got up and went to make coffee. His cousins' kitchen had a burr grinder and a French press, which were adequate, if not quite so perfect as his stovetop espresso maker at home. Bofur prepared exactly one cup, added cream and sugar, and drank it in the kitchen. Bifur and Lari needed sleep, not stimulants, and it wouldn't be nice to tease them with the aroma. 

The hall felt huge and empty. First Bofur swept the floor, gathering refuse as he went. Cups and plates and silver went into a basket, and that into the kitchen, where his cousins could wash up later. The trash bins were not overflowing -- he'd taken a load down in the middle of the party, and was pleased with himself for the foresight, because it wouldn't have been any good if they had gotten messy while everyone was trying to have a good time. He dumped in the dustpans several times, then carried the bins down and emptied them in the larger ones out in the alley. The night was nearly over; the air cool and almost light, and he breathed deeply before he went back inside.

He made a stack out of the sheets and blankets that had been slept upon. The cushions were mostly still clean, but he got a sponge from the kitchen and dabbed off a few spots. Upstairs would be worse, of course, but he didn't plan on doing too much with that -- Bifur and Lari would see to everything; he was only helping out a little, after all. He took some cheese and chocolate off a serving spread and ate them, then wrapped up the remains and moved those onto the dining-room table. Bombur's kids would have to come over later; they'd take good care of the leftovers.

When downstairs seemed reasonable, Bofur pulled back the curtains on the stairs. He arranged the drapes into their regular shape, knotted the tie-backs, and then started collecting and stacking the clothes-baskets. One he designated "lost and found", and into it went a few socks (how could anyone get dressed and not notice they were missing a sock?), a coin purse shaped like a puppy, two pocket knives, and a tin of breath mints before he stopped keeping track. At the top of the stairs he set those aside, and simply took the biggest basket that he could find and began collecting for the laundry.

Sheets, towels, blankets, a brassiere, a shirt -- Bofur shook his head. He'd tell Mr. Fu to just wash and fold everything, no starch; if somebody came back and wanted his cuffs to be crisp, he could do it for himself. He was tugging on the edge of a quilt when a head popped up from beneath it, mithril crown still braided in but quite askew. "Morning, Lari," he said, trying hard not to laugh.

"Good morning," she said, and the quirk of her smile showed he hadn't quite succeeded. She glanced out the window, which was now full of light, and started to get up. Bofur put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently back.

"You rest," he said. Bifur's arm reached up from underneath the quilt as well, and Bofur took his hand and wrapped it firmly around his wife. "Both of you. Don't worry, I'll leave plenty of work!" 

"Thank you, dear one," said Lari. She closed her eyes as she lay down, and Bofur tucked the quilt under her chin.

Plenty of work indeed; the upstairs was always worse than the downstairs after these parties. Bofur put a few more things in the lost and found, but mostly concentrated on collecting the laundry. He carried two loads down, then arranged the lot into a great bundle that he could carry on his back. As burdens went, it was soft and light, and it would smell a great deal better when Mr. Fu returned it the following day. He went out through the back door and down the alley, whistling. 

The Toy Sun laundry was just opening as Bofur arrived, Mr. Fu's little boy unlocking the door with great ceremony. "Hi, Mister Bofur," he said cheerfully. "That's a lot to wash!"

"Hi, Jack," Bofur answered. "And yes it is! A whole year's worth," and he made a great show of bearing his bundle inside, setting it down on the wide wooden counter.

"Who does their laundry only once a year?" Jack asked. Bofur was a regular customer, in every other week for his shirts.

"My older cousin," he said, then realized he didn't want to make a joke at Bifur's expense. "It's a holiday thing," he added. "We have a big party every year, and afterwards all the linens get washed." He cast around for more of an explanation that would make sense to a Man, and a very young one at that, and landed on, "It's traditional."

"Huh!" Jack might have asked more, but Mr. Fu came bustling out of the back to weigh the laundry and write out the ticket. 

"It's mostly sheets and blankets," Bofur said, "but there's some clothes in there as well. Just all wash and fold, please, no ironing, no starch." He reached into his pocket and found some bits of quartz; he'd meant to do some party-hopping the night before, but hadn't quite gotten around to it. He turned and extended a clear, shiny little point to Jack instead. "Here," he said, "we give each other pretty stones for this holiday, too. You can keep it," he added, as Jack's eyes went wide.

"Thank you, Mister Bofur," he said politely as he took it, but he was looking at his father.

"You don't mind, do you?" Bofur asked, turning back to Mr. Fu. "It's just an old-fashioned dwarf thing. Children are special for our people, and we enjoy giving out holiday stones."

Mr. Fu nodded. "Children are special," he agreed, and Jack grinned. "Thank you. Pickup tomorrow after three, all right?"

"All right. See you then," said Bofur. He walked back out into the day, still sifting the quartz in his pockets as he thought about where he might give them all away.


End file.
